by Unknown
All eyes turned to the small jewel of a bird that was sipping nectar from an orange-flowered plant.
A greenie, I think, Rose,’ said Hilary Fotherington-Thomas, squinting down her binoculars.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Rose. A green-headed sunbird. It would, of course, be most unusual to see a blue-headed sunbird this far east. And over here we have a pair of Baglafecht weavers.’ She repeated the name. ‘Bag-la-fecht weaver. Beautiful.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry Khan. ‘Almost as beautiful as you, Rose baby’.
‘Rose baby?’ Mr Malik raised his early morning cup of Nescafé from the table on the veranda and took a slow sip. ‘Rose baby?’
Nearly forty-eight hours had now passed since the bird walk, forty-eight hours in which he had not been able to get those two words out of his head. Mr Malik sighed and put down the cup. He sighed again then, pausing for a moment, picked up the notebook and a pencil that lay beside his two breakfast bananas, as yet untouched. It was the notebook he used for everything, identified on the front cover not with his name but with a rough biro drawing of a black eagle. He leaned forward and recorded a mark at the top of the freshly turned page. That made six so far this morning. A familiar sound made him look up. From behind the yellow banksia rose (his very favourite rose) at the corner of the bungalow came a small figure walking backwards, sweep-sweep-sweeping.
‘Ah Benjamin,’ said Mr Malik, smiling with sudden inspiration. ‘Benjamin, I have a job for you.’
Benjamin, of course, already had a job and he was happy with it. As shamba boy at Number 12 Garden Lane he swept the lawn and swept the paths. Every morning he cut a few branches from whatever tree or bush he thought could best spare them, lashed them to the broom handle with some sisal string, and spent the rest of the day gradually wearing them away on grass and concrete. Once a month he climbed up a ladder on to the roof and swept the gutters. What he swept up he took outside and burned on a bonfire by the side of the road. Every residential street in Nairobi is lined with small bonfires, piled with all the leaves that fall from the trees and other rubbish. The smell of Nairobi is the smell of small bonfires.
Mr Malik showed him the notebook. On the top sheet of paper Benjamin could see drawn a row of sticks.
‘I am conducting a survey’. Mr Malik raised the Nescafé to his lips for another inspirational sip. A bird survey’.
He put down the cup.
‘I would very much like your help. I shall be working at home today. I want you to stay here in the house with me – never mind the sweeping. Now, each time I say the word “hadada” I want you to record it on this piece of paper with this pencil. See? I have already heard, let us see, six hadadas this morning.’
Benjamin propped his broom against the wall, took the pad and counted the marks neatly spaced along the first line of the paper. Mr Malik leaned forward.
‘Hadada,’ he said, and after a short pause, ‘make that two. Mark them down.’
Benjamin drew two sticks on the paper. Mr Malik checked them, nodded, and smiled his approval.
Like Benjamin, you may yourselves well be wondering what nonsense was this. First, you might not know that the hadada is a sort of ibis – a large brown bird with long legs, a long curved beak and a loud voice. Hadadas roost in numbers among the trees in the leafier parts of Nairobi and their eponymous call is one of the more insistent elements of the dawn chorus in that part of the world, though they may be heard at any time of the day. But Mr Malik is not really counting hadadas. He is not really conducting a bird survey. Mr Malik is lying.
And here’s a little conundrum: Mr Malik is lying because he is the most honest man in the Asadi Club.
6
Club life in this part of Africa is not all it was. Time was when a fellow, if he were a white fellow, spent half his life at his club. If he lived north of the city it was the Muthaiga Club, if he lived south it was the Karen. Every night after work, and every weekend with the memsahib (and, if they were back from England for the holidays, the children), the club was home from home. But there aren’t as many white fellows now in Africa as there used to be – probably even fewer memsahibs – and though anyone white or black can join the Muthaiga or the Karen these days (well, not anyone, but you know what I mean) the old clubs are not what they were.
Because that’s not where the deals are done. The deals are done in an anonymous white building in the city with black glass in the windows where two large men in tight braided uniforms and sunglasses stand in front of the doors giving small nods to the select few they know are allowed in and ignoring anyone else. The ones they allow in? Very rich, very powerful or very pretty. So where does this leave the Asadi Club? Very nicely, thank you.
For the Asadi Club is where a fellow goes if he is not white or black but brown, and it is where brown men have been going since very soon after they came to Africa from India to help the white men build their railway and stayed to help them build a colony. It is where they still go. The Asadi Club, founded 1903, motto Spero meliora, is thriving. Any evening of the week you will find the club car park full of shiny Mercedes and BMWs, the green baize of the four billiard tables (only two at the Muthaiga now, alas) ablur with white and red balls, and empty glasses being exchanged for full ones over the bar as fast as the barmen can pour them. Mr Malik’s grandfather was a founding member of the club, his father had been Secretary for nearly forty years, and since Mr Malik’s wife died it had become to him a second home. It is where news and gossip is exchanged, and it was where, having spent the day after the bird walk trying to put all thoughts of Harry Khan from his mind and failed utterly, he had gone that evening to find out all there was to know about the man. Patel would know, or Gopez. Which they did, but in finding out what he wanted to know he had also been roped into this ‘hadada’ business.
‘Rot,’ said Mr Gopez.
Mr Malik, a glass of cool bedewed Tusker beer in his hand, sat down in the empty chair beside him and reached for the bowl of chilli popcorn.
‘Utter piffle.’
Mr Gopez was, he saw, reading the Evening News.
‘Strong words, A.B., strong words,’ murmured Mr Patel from the other side of the table.
‘No, really’. Mr Gopez slammed down the paper and picked up his own glass. ‘I mean, where do they get this stuff from?’
Mr Patel smiled. He had the delicious feeling there was an argument coming on. Now, was it going to be about something the President had said (always piffle), something the leader-writer had written (almost always piffle), or some item of foreign news (usually to do with the British royal family and usually piffle)? Or, as it was a Wednesday, was it something that chap had written in the ‘Birds of a Feather’ column (occasionally piffle, but rarely so)? He picked up the discarded paper to find his eye drawn to a small story at the bottom of the page. Danish scientists researching human digestion had, he read, discovered that the average human passes wind one hundred and twenty-three times a day.
‘See what I mean?’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Piffle. Absolute tommyrot. Chap couldn’t even fart like that on my mother-in-law’s dhal.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Patel, ‘I don’t know.’
Over the many years that he had known Mr A. B. Gopez, Mr Patel had discovered that these four simple words were a sure method to up the ante. With something of the feeling the piece of cheese on a mousetrap might experience as it hears a distant squeak, he awaited his friend’s next two words.
‘Don’t know?’ A pair of substantial eyebrows shot ceilingwards. ‘Don’t know? It stands to bloody reason. Over a hundred farts, that’s more than the entire volume of the human body. End of the day, you’d look like a sucked-out samosa. Wouldn’t you say, Malik?’
Mr Malik, it must be said, was by now on to his second glass of Tusker with all the recklessness that entails. What he should have said was, ‘Hmm.’ Instead what he said was, ‘Hmm?’
‘What do you mean, Hmm?’
‘I mean, it might not be quite like that, A.B. A fart, as
I understand it, is generated rather than simply stored.’
‘Exactly!’ said Mr Patel. ‘My point entirely. And who knows how big this Danish fart is, eh? Are we talking a delicate little Scandinavian pfff, or the whole raspberry tart?’
‘We’re talking Standard Danish Farts, we’re talking over one hundred a day, and I say it’s piffle. Utter tosh.’
This was the moment that Mr Patel had been waiting for.
‘And I say it isn’t.’
Mr Gopez put down his glass. Giving Mr Malik a look that suggested that their friend was at the least a fool, at the worst an imbecile, he paused. He would try the conciliatory approach.
‘Just think about it, Patel, old chap – apply the noggin. One day, twenty-four hours. One hundred and twenty-three farts, that’s more than five farts an hour, more than one every twelve minutes. Impossible. As I said, it simply stands to reason.’
‘One every eleven minutes and forty-nine seconds, to be exact, A.B. But I don’t see that reason has much to do with this – wouldn’t you agree, Malik? In cases such as this, the rational approach must surely make way for the empirical.’
Mr Malik said nothing. If he kept silent, there was still a chance.
‘What, you’re going to count your farts, is it?’ The Gopez eyebrows strained for attachment to the Gopez brow. And then expect me to believe you? And tell me, in your sleep how do you count farts?’
Ah,’ said Mr Patel. He paused. ‘I see what you mean, A.B. Yes, you do have a point.’ He paused, as if deep in thought. ‘I know,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s ask the Tiger.’
Oh no, thought Mr Malik, not the Tiger.
‘Tiger’ Singh, club billiard champion, snooker champion, whist champion, badminton champion for eleven years straight until his knee went, was the authority on all things sporting. In the Asadi Club this also encompassed all matters related to betting, both on and off the track. If there was a wager to be made you could rely on the Tiger to calculate the odds, keep the book, and buy beers all round with any profit which accumulated (as it usually seemed to) from his activities. Outside the club he made his living as a lawyer. Called over from the billiard table to hear the case, the Tiger first listened, then spoke.
‘Well, gentlemen, amoto quaeramus seria ludo, wouldn’t you say? Two questions immediately spring to mind. Firstly, how did the Danish fellows do it? Secondly, how much is riding on the result?’
‘As for the first question,’ said Mr Gopez, pushing the paper towards him, ‘I haven’t a clue – see for yourself. As for the second…’ He took wallet from pocket. ‘What shall we say, ten thousand?’
This, thought Mr Malik, is getting silly.
Mr Patel also brought out his wallet.
‘Ten thousand it is.’
The Tiger held up his hands.
‘Wait wait wait, you chaps. Wallets away.’ At last someone was seeing sense. ‘Before we can even think of making a book we have to decide just what it is we are betting on. Now A.B., exactly what is it you want to wager your ten thousand shillings on?’
‘I say – I bet – that these Danish fellows are talking out of their… out of their jolly fart-holes. No normal person passes wind more than one hundred times a day.’
‘And I,’ said Mr Patel, ‘say they do.’
‘There, simple.’
‘Well no, you see A.B., not simple at all,’ said the Tiger. ‘Clearly, this claim – this hypothesis – needs to be tested. But putting aside for a moment the problem of how we count aforementioned farts – some sort of fancy Danish fart-meter or what? – there is the question of definition. How exactly does one define a fart? Communi consilio, as we say in the law. There has to be some agreement, does there not?’
Without waiting for an answer (did I mention he was a lawyer?) the Tiger continued.
‘And even more important, how do we verify the result? Who would take whose word for it, if you see what I mean?’
Three brows wrinkled, three pairs of lips pursed.
‘If only we had some sort of independent third party…’ murmured the Tiger.
Three pairs of brown eyes turned as one towards Mr Malik.
7
‘Hadada.’
Benjamin dutifully made another mark on the paper. Mr Malik, noble Malik, honest Malik, had naturally refused to be any part of the cock-eyed scheme.
‘But it’s the only way,’ said the Tiger.
‘No,’ said Mr Malik.
‘You’re the only man,’ said Mr Patel.
‘No,’ said Mr Malik.
‘Malik – clarum et venerabile nomen.’
‘A watchword…’ said Mr Gopez.
‘A byword…’
‘For honesty…’
‘For integrity.’
‘Wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.’
‘Couldn’t trust it to anyone else.’
‘No,’ said Mr Malik.
‘Honour of the club, old man,’ said Tiger Singh.
And that, as they say, did it. Never had a Malik shirked his duty to the Asadi Club. Never had a Malik let down the side.
‘Oh, all bloody right,’ he said.
Over another round of Tuskers (courtesy of the Tiger, good old Tiger) the rules were agreed, noted, witnessed and signed. Mr Malik would undertake by whatever method he so chose to record the number of gaseous emissions (hereafter referred to as farts) from his lower intestinal orifice over a period of twelve hours, those hours being seven o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock in the evening and the day being the following day. Mr Malik’s judgement as to what constituted a true fart would be accepted by all parties and no correspondence would be entered into. It being agreed by all parties impracticable to count farts while asleep, the number of farts in that 12-hour period would be assumed and accepted by all parties to be half of those in any 24-hour period. Mr Malik would report to the Asadi Club at 8 p.m. on the morrow. If the number of farts recorded during the aforementioned 12 hours equalled or exceeded 51, this would be evidence in favour of the Danish claim and Mr Patel would win the bet. If the number of farts equalled or was less than 50, this would be evidence against the Danish claim and Mr Gopez would win the bet. Stakes to be held in trust by H. H. Singh, LLB, MA (Oxon.), barrister-at-law.
The wager had seemed no more sensible when Mr Malik woke up the following morning but there was nothing for it, it had to be done. He reached across the table for his cup of Nescafé.
‘Hadada,’ he said again.
Benjamin made his fourth mark of the morning, making ten in all. The sudden inspiration to get Benjamin to help in the scheme was a clever stroke, though, thought Mr Malik. Much easier than having to take out his little notebook all the time and mark the damned things down himself, and the boy would enjoy the change from sweeping. And Patel and A.B. had certainly been helpful with all that stuff about Harry Khan. Very helpful. But before we find out what Mr Malik had learned at the Asadi Club about Harry, a little more about Benjamin.
Sixteen years old and never been kissed, Benjamin had been in Mr Malik’s employment as shamba boy for only five months. He loved it. Full board and lodging and 350 shillings a month. For the first time in his life he had his own room – a vast echoing room over two metres square, and with a window. And electricity – on, off. And a water tap outside – on, off. And money in his pocket. Of course he sent 250 home, but that left a whopping 100 shillings to spend on… on what? On sugar, on bonbons, on Coca-Cola! So much Coca-Cola.
Benjamin had always known how to enjoy life. He was the last in the family, one of those children who in the West are often given the unfortunate label of ‘accidents’ but in Africa are usually known by more favourable descriptions – in Benjamin’s village down in the big valley, such children were referred to as ‘late rain’. His nearest brother was seven years older, so Benjamin grew up never lonely but often alone. On his parents’ small farm he had enjoyed playing by himself, in dust or mud according to the season. He had enjoyed looking after the chickens,
fascinated by the individual character of each bird. He was delighted when he was at last old enough to be sent out with the goats – at first only in the morning, later on all day (though he was slightly disappointed to discover that they were not half as clever as chickens). He loved watching the wild animals – the cheeky mongooses, the tickly scorpions, the shy snakes and lizards, the many kinds of birds coming down to drink at the water tank. He liked talking to the women of the village, and the men, and was overjoyed when at the age of eight, after much deliberation in which it seemed the whole community was involved, he was sent to school. The school was three miles away beside the Nakuru road, so he still had time to throw a stick or climb a tree or watch a bright green snake on the walk there and the walk back. Sometimes he and the other children would climb the big hill behind the school and roll rocks down just for the fun of it, and one time they took an old car tyre up the hill. What a joy it was to see the tyre slowly gather speed then roll and bounce all the way to the bottom. Unlike the rocks, though, the car tyre didn’t stop at the bottom of the hill. To the children’s glee it kept on bouncing and rolling, across the road, over the fence and onwards. To the children’s dismay its forward momentum was only arrested when it slammed into the wall of the schoolmaster’s house, causing him to drop the cup of strong tea he habitually brewed to calm himself after classes were finished for the day. But apart from the occasional sore bottom for pranks like this Benjamin enjoyed his schooling and the years went quickly by.
It happened that Benjamin started school soon after the new Minister of Education had issued the decree that school was no longer to be taught in the language of the old colonial masters. Swahili was now to be the lingua franca throughout the country. Benjamin’s teacher was a wise man and continued to teach the children English as well as Swahili, and Benjamin enjoyed learning both new languages. He enjoyed it so much that he became the despair of his teacher, always wanting to know the word for this and the word for that. What was the Swahili word for doguru, a gang of mongooses? What was the English word for wakiku, the little green berries that grew on the kikuya bush? Benjamin’s teacher, who had grown up beside Lake Victoria where the local species of mongoose was a solitary animal and wakiku berries were unknown, became so exasperated with his curious pupil that he limited Benjamin (and, to be fair, all the other children) to three questions a day. But this did not stop Benjamin from continuing to ask the questions in his head. Why is a makari called a makari, why are there different words for male and female myaki – nudzi and kiyu – but not for male and female hatajii, and why is there no English word for huturu – for surely everyone needs to huturu? When Benjamin’s schooling finished and he began, aged twelve, to help his father and uncles with the hoeing and the planting in the hasara (or shamba as he had now learned to call it in Swahili) Benjamin began to ask them similar questions. His father was a patient man, but after four years of being questioned daily about languages he hardly knew, Benjamin’s father (again with the enthusiastic assent of the entire village) packed him off to stay with his mother’s younger brother Emanuel in the city.